Break in Austin

Just like Johnny Drama, I don't like classically beautiful women. They need a couple flaws; lazy eye, bad haircut, maybe a snaggletooth or two. And just like I like my women with a few flaws, I like my cities with a couple quirks as well. Being on Law School Spring Break (which is somewhat like a regular week in undergrad), I've had a chance to appreciate the cracks and kinks in the lovely veneer of ATX. It's really all about the character, because how interesting can a city with no graffiti or hippies on bikes be? The car on blocks in the alley behind my house really kicks the "keeping it real" scale up a notch or three. And the insanely unpredictable traffic situation on I-35 is so absurd it's a constant source of amusement for me (because I don't have to drive in it every day, obviously). Really, you want to live somewhere that will constantly surprise you, because if not, what is the point of getting up and going out every day? Living in Austin, I have equal chances of seeing an absolutely beautiful girl, or a bum wearing no shirt but a UT hat when I walk out my door. What happens to those people in the suburbs? Is seeing the Smith's dumbass kid shooting hoops (with poor shot mechanics, inevitably) in the driveway really going to spice up the day at the office? If you were to take chapel hill-carrboro, and sprinkle about 600,000 people on it, add a few more bars and a "river" running through it, and you'd have Austin. If you don't know why that appeals to me, well I guess you haven't been paying attention here for a while. Any city where anything can happen is fine in my book, especially one with this many places to get a drink...

How a man came to give a damn about a car named Gus

As it usually goes, men form attachments to cars. Perhaps it's the modern day version of that attachment to the horse from time immemorial. But it's rare to form an attachment to another man's car. It takes a special kind of ride, that singular automobile embodying more than just transportation or storage space. GUS was just this kind of car. A rock-solid Ford Taurus, that faded paint roaring straight out of the 80's. Gus, and untold millions of his brethren, was the car that saved Ford Motor Company the first time around. The most American car company was on hard times, imports were cheap, people were tired of heavy, overpriced, gas guzzlers. In the 80's everything was bleak, there was great suffering and gnashing of teeth around, inflation was high, and every car coming out of Michigan sucked more than a hooker on Friday. Enter the Taurus, the car that defined the American sedan for a generation. From the late 80's to the early 2000's, there was not a more stereotypical American family automobile. Solid steel and comfortable velor, with two big couches for seats and an entirely adequate audio system, this car would take the family wherever it was they may need to go. They say that gray is the color of the uninspired, but I heartily disagree; Gus's inspired all-gray scheme was nothing but pure transportational utility. It was get-the-job-done in metallic clear coat. On a personal level, Gus came into my life at a special time. It was the first summer of living on my own, keeping it real in Chapel Hill with Mr. Butts. Little did we know we'd be babysitting a Ford Taurus with Colorado plates. But the first time we took her for a spin (after the cabin temperature dropped to under 120 degrees and the seatbelt metal was cool enough to touch), we were hooked. Maybe it was that antenna pointing straight ahead, like a lance from a charging steed. Or the solidly mechanical rumble (or maybe that was more like a whir) emitting from under the hood. Whatever it was, this car was more than the sum of it's 100% American built parts. It was a magic carpet ride to badass, and a symbol of a period of life when men figured out what it was they were doing, and what it was they did well. I salute Gus; even if his body was metal, his heart was fucking solid gold.

motivation

Law school gives you plenty of time to question what exactly has motivated you. What motivated you to choose this hell of an education with the worst humans on earth (joking....sort of). And this introspective examination of motivation also lends itself to other fields, such as this blog. What the fuck do I (sporadically) write in this thing for? Well, upon examination of that question, I found a few interesting answers.

1. I felt a deep personal obligation to rectify the great wrong to humanity that was the "Butts Update", a failed blog of one single post produced by Mr. Chris Butts himself. This abomination of a text document proved that commitment to updating his friends was not a high priority for Chris. It also proved how terrible a blog could be if not approached with at least some desire to advance past post #1.
2. Every person on earth had a blog at this point. Seriously, everyone. Daniel Findlay, Nick Lovelace, and Jimmy Leak. Chris Butts, if we count that as an actual blog product. Every 14 yr old girl on Myspace. So why not me? I was ostensibly qualified, having had training in the operation of a qwerty keyboard, and an IQ above 60. So lock and load I did.
3. I was a closet optimist about the world. Yes, this makes no sense, being a hardcore cynic and general asshole. But I was convinced there were funny, ridiculous, and absolutely positive things that happened every day. I was sick of people bitching about college, about studying, about jobs, about girls, about boys, about parents, about children, and about life. I was (and still am, if you press me a bit) positive that I had lived one of the weirdest and best lives to ever come out of Sparta, NC, a place I will badmouth to my grave (and that made me who I am and is every bit as important to where I am today as Chapel Hill). Most people got off by emphasizing the awfulness of their situations, perhaps because no one ever told them that they should look up for a minute, figure out how lucky they were not to be digging ditches, making license plates, or shoveling shit in bumfuck, USA, and thank whatever God or Science they believe is responsible for this luck. After awhile, I got fed up with this general idiocy.
4. It allowed me to chronicle the asskicking and firestarting of the unique group of rogues I had the privilege of spending the best time of my life with.

Basically, life isn't about one girl, one band (though the rolling stones do kick ass), one job, or one drug. If it was, well, I'd be fucked. It scares me how infrequently I remember this. If you're going to be around this rock, you might as well try and kick ass while doing it. In order to sound less like a high school football coach, I'll say that yes, some shit is very ugly. Plenty of things are ugly in this world. But they are almost always caused by people being ugly to each other, not some absolute negative power trying to keep you from making that A in chemistry or making that long-haired girl look the other way every time you try to catch her eye. I may not know everything, but I do know if someone like me can acknowledge how good the world really is, well, the rest of you fuckers should have a cakewalk.

With all that considered, I think I've done this blog, and the 3 or 4 internet pervert stalkers that read it a great disservice. I have been woefully slack in updating it. I have been woefully slack in pointing out how lucky I am to get up each day in Austin, TX and attend a fine university, with a fine group of people that vary from wonderful to satanic. I get to see the weirdest shit in the weirdest city in America. And all I have to do is wake up every day and get the fuck out of bed, with my eyes wide open, and my attitude ready to light a fucking fire. (not that this means I'll update any more frequently; I'm in law school, fuckers)

Groundhog Day

Yes, I've slacked tremendously in keeping this blog updated. So, why not make a blogpost about how I feel about writing, with blogposts as significant element? Yeah, we'll take that and run with it. Once upon a time, in my more idyllic younger days, I told a girl I thought writing was the purest form of communication. Now, at first blush, this sounds grade-A retarded. The purest form of communication? How, you may ask, could I ever reach this conclusion, much less defend it to any semi-intelligent human being? Well, it went something like this: when one is writing, they aren't speaking straight from their stream of consciousness. Yes, obviously, that is true. But it is significant, mainly in that you can consider the implication of the words you are producing. Usually when we speak, whether in person or via telephone, we have seconds to respond (maybe less with a fast-talker). Those words, themes, and ideas floating nearest the top of the cesspool of creativity that is our minds come out first. But when we write, we have the opportunity (not always taken) to consider the implications of the words. One can see the fabric of the narrative that is being produced, and actively alter it before it ever reaches another. This might lead you to think that written communication presents many more opportunities for manipulation, and you'd be partially correct in that. But think of the context cues we use in daily conversation; facial expressions, tone of voice, mood, delivery, and many other factors all play on our vocal interactions that we never stop to consider. When we write down what we want to say, all these outside clues are eliminated. Yes, this opens the door to misunderstanding, but that is exactly why we have such an intricate and complex language, to allow any and all impressions we wish to create to be conveyed via the written medium. Another factor is the lack of confidence many have in their oratorical abilities, especially in the presence of peers or superiors. We sabotage ourselves with our nervousness, lack of confidence in our words and assertions, and general inability to articulate our ideas. And speeches are simply another example of how effective writing can be at articulating an idea; how often do you think these official oral presentations are done extemporaneously? Writing gives one an opportunity to preview their arguments and assertions. How often has a random conversation hit you in the gut with the power of one line of Shakespeare? Not fucking often. This isn't to say that that plenty of modern writing is absolute trash. But if you want someone to truly understand what you mean (or if you want to impress that English major in your class) I bet you'll write that shit down.

I'm getting soft in my old age.

It's sad, really. I didn't drink this past weekend, at all. For no reason other than I was in Texas over thanksgiving with no one else I knew around. Since when was that ever a problem? In response to the startling revelation that I'm losing my edge, I offer a little inventory of myself at the fresh age of 23 (yes, 23 fucking years old).
Where I am: Austin, TX, in Three Oaks, living next to a middle aged gay man that already has Christmas Lights up on his windows, and some artsy kid named Sam (or steve, some S name I didn't particularly listen to) who has head-shaped sculptures up in his windows, while a black cat lives on our balcony (Christmas Lights man feeds it on a regular basis, Goddammit).
Why I'm here: well that's the $130,000 question, isn't it? Law school seems to be the answer most satisfactory to the parents and other family members (at least it makes them stop asking questions, perhaps it just confuses them). But more believably, Texas had the coolest admissions envelope of any Law School not located in the top 10 most dangerous cities in America (fuck you WashU). Also, I really needed an excuse to go on that first plane flight. And an added side benefit is the acceptable wearing of another of the world's strangest collegiate colors.
What I'm doing: Well Law School, obviously. I mean, really, what else is there to do in a town with 50,000 college students and a university labeled the #1 party school by the Princeton Review? Ok, I admit sometimes I do have time to watch an occasional movie or group dinner, but Drinking? Me? Come on, you know how I focus.
How much am I in Debt: More than the average American spends on their first house. Seriously.
Who I hang out with: Some of the most insanely random people this side of Chapel Hill. Notable Characters: a South Carolinian, which forces me to constantly curtail my bashing of the Palmetto state; A kid from Notre Dame who actually has the logo Tattooed on his back; A kid from Atlanta who has reaffirmed my faith in the power-hour; some girl from Oklahoma who majored in Piano (Seriously, Piano at OU. Just let that one marinate); and a young man from San Antonio who makes me feel secure in my own mental illness (this means he's of a comparable caliber of crazy; yay alliteration!).
How I feel about Texans: If you counter their bullshit with even greater amounts of bullshit, it shocks them. All you have to do is point out that you live in a place where snow happens (this doesn't work on the ones that go Skiing in Colorado), BBQ is made out of pork, leaves change colors (besides just brown), and people can cross state lines in less than 5 hours of driving (I guess the whole going to Mexico point applies here, but really, I've never met anyone from anywhere close, or that ever wants to go). Other than that, they're a fine bunch.
Impressions: It still makes me laugh when they try to figure out what a real North Carolina license looks like (oh shit, did I just admit drinking?), and the massive amount of holograms reflecting across our ID doesn't help the process (First in Flight, bitches!). And I miss Hardee's (although What-a-Burger is a surprisingly decent substitute). But this Alamo Drafthouse movie theater is probably the greatest idea for entertainment in the history of the world. Seriously, a movie theater that serves tons of alcohol and has waiters that come around even during the movie? Pure Brilliance.

Friday Blues

For perhaps the entirety of my educational career, I have held one holy policy above all others. One day was sacred, untouched by the blasphemy of studious activity. So friends, it is with a heavy heart that I report the failure of my own principles. It is technically a Friday at this moment, and before me sits a Contracts book. Fucking Law School. But fear not, for there is a silver lining to this gloomy cloud of despair. Diet Coke now comes in 24-packs (it's about fucking time), I have an entire carton of cheddar goldfish, and it's been almost an entire week without a cigarette. Obviously, procrastination output has not been sacrificed; I think I'm ready for the Law School shit to go down.

Killing Time

There is a scene in Memento where Leonard wakes up, comes back, returns to consciousness while running in a trailer park. His first question, "Ok, what am I doing?" He sees another man running near him. "I'm chasing this guy" he says; then the guy fires a shot at him. "Nope. He's chasing me." Memento is a post-modernist film, questioning the foundations of our concepts of knowledge, how we form it, recall it, interpret it. Or at least that's what my film criticism professor told us in his pre-recorded lecture I listened to on my way to class one day in Engl 41. For me, this scene reminds me of my life right now. I feel like I woke up running one day in Austin, in Law School, with no clear friends and no clear enemies. You never really know until they start shooting. Not to belittle the people I know here; plenty have been nice, some seem like people I'll be friends with for quite some time. But the feeling that I just fell asleep in mill creek G9 keeps haunting me; I'm in a new state, a new school, a whole new time zone. How did this happen exactly? Like Leonard, I'm not sure. Where am I going? Are these people my friends? Better yet, why am I running? We don't act based on large philosophies, on world-views, personal beliefs; we RE-act, to a stimulus, and in that action, we define exactly just who it is we are. Maybe that's the point prof. taylor wanted to get across; even if Leonard knew the score, he would act the same with a gun in his face. Who cares about all the rest, it's the action that matters.